Interbellum
by WolfOfAnsbach
Summary: Jughead Jones hopes to become a reporter in time for the next great war. Veronica Lodge's wealthy family battles FDR's New Deal. Betty Cooper tries to tone down the Riverdale Register's isolationism. The Blossoms disperse striking workers with a little help from the Pinkerton Detective Agency. And Archie Andrews still can't make a decision to save his life. Great Depression AU
1. Priorities

**This is pure crack that will ramble and probably make no sense.**

* * *

A cold front begins to roll in. Heavy grey clouds mass in the skies overhead. The cheery, multicolored letters announcing 'Pop's Chock'lit Shoppe' have long begun to flake away under the twin forces of weather and time. Inside the old diner, two young boys sit across from one other. A light rain begins.

Jughead Jones opens his faux-leather bound journal. The pages are beginning to yellow, curling at the corners. Though he's owned it for more than a year, it's less than half full of his scribblings. He tries to conserve space best he can. After all, it's not like he'll soon have enough money to spend on another one. Thrift. That's the key to surviving in these tumultuous times.

He scrawls the date in the corner of the page.

 **October 20th, 1935**

 _Our story is about a town, but beyond that, it's the story of a nation, and a world. A world changing with greater speed and greater intensity than anyone might have ever imagined. Or dreaded. The optimistic reveries and Pollyanna dreams of the decades past have vanished in the face of an impossibly grim reality. In this country alone, one fourth of workingmen are out of a job. Across the seas, entire nations fold under the brutal might of destitution and poverty. Dictatorship rears its head and threatens to trample first Europe, then the world, underfoot. The future is marked by crooked crosses and scarlet flags._

 _Even here, in picturesque Riverdale, safely ensconced in the land of the free, the travails of the world make themselves known._

 _Our story begins with the Blossom family, and in particular with the strike called by the laborers employed by Clifford Blossom's nation-wide maple syrup empire. Like in so many towns throughout America, the class divisions and tensions in Riverdale ra-_

"I just don't know, Jug. I get that going after music is kind of a fool's errand in this economy, but it's my passion."

Jughead looks up for a moment, his pencil ceasing its dance over the paper. "Archie I'm kind of busy."

 _The class divisions and tensions in Riverdale ran deep. On one side, there was the happy, clean-cut face of Riverdale. The Northside. Populated by cheery, all American, middle-class suburbanites. They ran their small businesses, raised their wholesome, fresh faced sons and daughters, kept their lawns immaculate, and made up one little disc in the backbone of our proud nation. On the other side, there was the unsavoury element that made this lifestyle possible. The Southside. Populated by poor day laborers, destitute bums, petty criminals, an-_

"My dad really wants me to take up the family business. And I get it. It's been in the Andrews family for generations. But I just don't think that's me."

Jughead stops writing again. He fixes his friend with an exasperated stare.

"Archie. Listen to me. We are in the middle of the worst economic downturn in history. Half of this country is unemployed. Crops are rotting in the fields. Democracy is crumbling in Europe. Fascists are bombing Abyssinia into ash. I don't want to sound rude, but you really have to ask yourself, 'what are the biggest problems right now?'

Archie looks back at Jughead. He runs a hand through his ginger hair. He blinks. There's a moment of silence.

"So you're saying I should pursue my music?"

"For fuck's sake."

* * *

 **Archie cannot prioritize no matter what decade it is.**


	2. They Say In Rockland County

"Penelope, get me some strikebreakers. The kind they had at Blair Mountain."

The mass of shabby workingmen milling about in the lot of Blossom Syrup's primary manufacturing plant is more than enough to put a bolt of fear through the hearts of Riverdale's very own robber baron, Clifford Blossom. The strikers' lined, worn faces and tattered clothes are inscrutable to him. They come from a different world than the well-heeled, slick-haired, smooth-voiced son of privilege. To Cliff, they are like alien creatures. They labor under him. He grudgingly gives them a cut and they keep his business in operation. But he cannot understand them. Not their motivations nor their emotion, nor their joys or sorrows.

Cliff watches with disgust, his steely blue eyes hard. He watches from a safe distance, of course. It wouldn't do to get too close to this mob. The last thing he needed was to be strung up from a lightpost. Ungrateful bastards. He pays them fine. They're lucky to have jobs at all, what with this depression and with Roosevelt's war on business. Cliff's stomach turns. He hops into his car, motions for the driver, and speeds away.

* * *

"Cheryl, get your father some strikebreakers!" Penelope bellows as she storms through the front doors of Thornhill. Her voice thunders through the house's cavernous interior, invading even the relative safety of her daughter's bedroom. Cheryl groans (though certainly not loud enough for her mother to hear) and rises from her bed. She knows this drill. She's done it more than a few times, and having unpleasant or lengthy tasks delegated to her is just an expected feature of life around here. She slogs down one flight of stairs to the phone on the first floor dedicated to 'business' calls. By muscle memory, she enters the number her father drilled into her head a long time ago. The glamorous redhead taps her perfectly manicured fingernails on the lacquered surface of a coffee table as the phone rings.

Rings.

Rings again.

"Pinkerton Detective Agency. Hello?"

Cheryl puts on the sweetest, friendliest voice she can muster.

"Hi! Mr. Redman? This is Cheryl Blossom. Clifford's daughter?"

"Cheryl! Of course! How are you? How's everything up in Rockland County?"

She puts as much enthusiasm as she can into her words, while her face remains a mask of disinterest. Cheryl twirls the phone cord around her pinky finger.

"Oh, everything's fine. It's just that we're having a little problem in Riverdale that we were hoping you could help us remedy.

"And what might that be?"

"Well, my daddy's workers are getting a little ornery. We've basically had to halt production. The wages they're demanding are ridiculous."

"Mhhm. Strikes, huh? Yeah, those are a real doozy? I assume Cliff wants me to send down a few guys. Bust some heads. Put everything back in its place."

"I think you read his mind, Mr. Redman."

Cheryl hangs up the phone and makes her way to Thornhill's ancient sitting room. She finds her brother there, reclining on the couch before a dying fire.

"Who were you on the phone with?" Jason asks his sister, as he tosses and catches a rubber ball, in the throes of boredom.

"The Pinks." Chery replies, flopping down onto the couch next to him.

"Again?"

"Well, daddy needs somebody to take care of these strikes."

"Do we really need to turn this place into Harlan County? Talk about bad press."

"Oh please, JJ. The rabble will scatter as soon as the Pinkerton boys pull out their revolvers."

"And if they don't?"

"Then they'll find the top organizers and bump them off. Come on, you know how these things work, Jason."

"Wow. That's murder." He says in mock indignation.

"Please. Who's gonna arrest dad for it? Sheriff Keller? Real likely."

"It's funny because rich people are above the law."

"Like it or not, that's the way things work." Cheryl slings an arm around her brother's shoulder and leans up against him. "It's the American way."

"All this over maple syrup." Jason mutters.

"Well, over the manufacture, packaging, and sale of maple syrup, too." Cheryl expands. "But yeah, in a reductionist sense. It's all about the sweet, sweet maple syrup."

"Can't we just get some scab workers to take their places? That way we can put a stop to this whole thing without pulling any guns or shooting anyone?"

"Oh, JJ." Cheryl smiles. "You're so soft-hearted"

"I'm being selfish. I don't want to be the son of the guy who shoots his employees when they ask for slightly higher wages."

"One minute they're asking for higher wages, the next they're flying red flags and sending death squads after everyone who lives in a two story house."

"Ah, yes. The infamous 'slippery Bolshevik slope'."

Cheryl pouts. She scoots closer to Jason.

"Hey, do you can ask the Russian Tsar all about slippery slopes." Her eyes go wide. She curls her hands into claws. "Oh wait. You can't! Because he's dead!"

"Eh, whatever. Turn on the radio, Cher. I'm bored."

"What for? Here. I'll summarize everything you'll here on the radio for you. 'Hitler does something. Everyone's poor and no one has a job. Roosevelt is saving this country. Roosevelt is ruining this country. Mussolini gasses Ethiopians. Everything is terrible."

"This is why I love you, Cheryl."

* * *

The next morning at breakfast, Cheryl suddenly pipes up. It's only her, Jason, and the servants, today. Cliff is out dealing with the massive inconveniences that typically accompany most of one's workforce going on strike. Penelope is…God knows where.

"I had a pretty terrible nightmare last night."

"About what?" Jason inquires.

"All of the workers from the maple syrup plant organized and formed a Riverdale Regional Soviet."

Jason's bacon stops halfway to his mouth.

"What."

"Oh yeah, it was awful. They collectivized everything and made us move six homeless families into Thornhill with us."

"Nightmarish."

"There were hammers and sickles everywhere. And so many poor people" She shudders in horror. "And that was before they put us in front of a revolutionary tribunal to try us as enemies of the people."

"What was the verdict?" Jason asks, smiling now.

"I don't know. An owl hooted outside my window and I woke up."


	3. America First

**Reports of Criminality and Targeted Harassment in Germany Greatly Exaggerated by Hostile Eelements** blares the front page of the _Riverdale Register_ one morning.

"So much for subtlety, huh Cooper?" Veronica Lodge teases as they stroll to school under a grim autumn sky.

Betty sighs, fidgeting with the hemline of her skirt in a particular expression of frustration.

"I actually talked to my mom about it."

"Really?" Veronica asks.

"Yeah. Well, I just said 'hey, maybe we should tone down the partisan rhetoric in the paper down a little bit, don't you think?'"

"And her response was…" Leads her friend.

"I quote: 'The _Riverdale Register_ is a private publication and as a private publication it reserves the right to endorse or denounce any political or ideological sympathy or tendency it wishes to.' In other words, it was a big 'no'."

"Well, I try to give politics a wide berth myself. Unless it's useful for pissing off my mother." Veronica jokes. "Can't say what I know of the new Germany endears them to me much though."

"Yeah. Well, actually, it's a bit of problem between my mom and dad. Well, you know my dad was in the army, and he went to Europe during the war, so he's not a big supporter Germany. My mother, on the oth-"

A car whips by with the windows rolled down. It all occurs much too quickly for either girl to identify the occupants, but it's probably a safe bet they're fellow Riverdale High students. A blurry figure in the backseat pulls back an arm and chucks something with considerable force.

"Fuck you, Nazi!"

The bottle of coke shatters at Betty's feet, splattering her bare legs with drink and little beads of glass. She jumps back in shock, dropping her books in the process.

"Oh my God!" Veronica exclaims, leaning down to help her friend. The two collect Betty's school materials (now soaked in the puddle of coca cola), while the poor blonde recovers from the surprise. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah." Betty assures her. "Just the wages of being the daughter of the town's only newspaper proprietors."

And so they resume their trek to school, minds consumed with thoughts of Coca Cola and National Socialist Germany.


	4. Solidarity Forever

"Dad, are you going to work today?" Jughead asks. His eyes are hollow. Dark and tired. FP looks back at his son. His own face is little better. Sallow. Pale. Drawn. He makes a half-hearted attempt to rise from the couch and then abandons it.

"Come on, Jughead. You read the papers, yeah?" He smiles, sad. "We're on strike."

"Really? Is that it? Because if that's the truth, then fine. I'm happy to shut my mouth if this is in the service of some…noble cause. But somehow I doubt that."

FP sighs. He gropes around for the bottle he'd left lying somewhere at the foot of the couch. Finds it. Raises it to his level. It was empty. A single drop of beer falls from the bottle's lip. The puddle of Budweiser where the drink spilled grows ever wider, soaking into the cheap carpeting and the fabric of the couch. FP sighs. He lets the bottle fall from his fingers and clatter to the floor with a dull thud.

"Do you?"

"Why aren't you at the lot with everyone else, then? Holding up a sign or a flag? Fair day's wage for a fair day's work, right?"

Jughead shakes his head.

"Jug…what does it matter? Why I'm here? Nobility, laziness. I'm here, and not there." FP closes his eyes. Jughead scowls, face flushed with disgust. He decides there's no sense in pushing any further. His father is going nowhere. The all-important drink has captivated him. There's little in the world with the power to draw him away. Certainly not his son. Jughead turns on his heel.

"Well…I'm heading to the factory. Where the strikers are. The actual strikers. Good luck with your own battles, here."

He turns to leave, but stops short when he hears his father's raspy laugh.

"Do you think they'll get anything? Think Cliff Blossom will raise wages? They'll stand out in the cold for a few weeks for nothing. Blossom's got gold and food and warmth. We don't. He can wait us out. That's if he doesn't call in some scabs to work for pennies on the dollar or some thugs to bust skulls. Better I lie here and rest for a while then stand out there freezing my ass off for nothing."

"No, instead you just drink your ass off for nothing, right?"

"I drink my ass off because there's nothing, Jughead."

"Is that supposed to sound profound?"

"No, true."

"Really?"

"No jobs worth shit. No help. No charity. No future. At least we've got fucking drink, for crissakes. Leave me that."

"I never knew you were such a fatalist."

"Never took you for an optimist."

FP's hand finally finds a beer bottle not entirely emptied. With a grunt of victory, he lifts it to his lips and takes a swig. Soon, it's emptied too. Jughead storms out of the tiny house, the doorframe shaking with the fury of his exit. FP shakes the bottle, as if that might magically induce more drink to appear. It doesn't, of course. Hope and willpower are good for nothing. He can't will himself more beer anymore than he can will himself employment that can provide better than starvation wages. Anymore than he can will his wife to return. Anymore than he can will this fucked up country to mend itself and make good on the bullshit promises its politicians make. Anymore he can will the world to purge itself of all the evil and misery.

He shakes the beer bottle once more, and then lets it tumble to the floor. It rolls across the room slowly, bumping gently against the far wall. He watches it rock back and forth for a bit. Now he's alone.

* * *

"Did you talk to your dad?"

"You could say that." Jughead spits.

Betty frowns. As if this were her problem. As if problem even affected her. She grabs Jughead's hand. He lets her do it, but he doesn't really return the gesture. At least not with any appreciable amount of enthusiasm. He sinks onto the steps, defeated. Betty takes a seat beside him.

"What happened?"

"He's not going to work. Or even to the strike he claims to be supporting. I wonder how long til he gets fired. Not too long, I'm guessing. Then we'll really be in the thick of it."

"You don't know that's going to happen, Jughead."

He ignores her attempt at reassurance.

"See, with the money he brings in, now, we get to eat. Sure, not enough to keep away hunger pangs at night, but enough that I don't collapse in the street. Let's see how much food he brings in when Cliff Blossom sends him packing. Like Fred Andrews did."

What a row that had caused between Jughead and his best friend. To fire a man was one thing, but to fire him now? When half the damn country couldn't find work? That was tantamount to condemning someone to pauperism. _How could your dad do this? He didn't have a choice, Jug. No? Well I'm really sorry your dad was forced to make us homeless. That must be really hard for him. Jughe-Fuck off, Archie._

FP Jones had found another job. Barely. As much as shipping for the Blossoms could be considered a 'job' and not glorified slavery. At least Fred Andrews had given a decent wage. Blossom's largesse was inversely proportional to his personal wealth. Half of it could have kept everyone in Riverdale, Greendale, and the next six towns fed and clothed for another year or two. But to expect generosity from the Blossom clan was like expecting a kiss from a rattlesnake. Nobody was really dumb enough for that.

Anyway, now that that job was gone, it hardly seemed likely the universe would grant a third chance.

"Jughead, we'll figure something out. This isn't the city. We won't let you end up sleeping in a gutter somewhere."

He shrugs. His lips twist into a crooked smile.

"You know, I hear in Russia everyone's got the right to work. 0% unemployment. Guaranteed housing. Maybe I should look into moving to Leningrad, huh?"

"Don't talk like that. The last thing you need is people calling you a red."

"Better a Bolshevik than begging for scraps from the Blossoms' or the Andrews' tables."

"Things aren't _that_ bad, Jughead."

"Easy for you to say, huh?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Betty looks genuinely taken aback. Her big blue eyes go wide. Her lips pressed into a tight line.

"You live in a two-story house and I live in a shack on the southside. Your parents run the town newspaper. My dad can't keep a job ferrying syrup from point A to point B." His voice rises. "You've bought clothes more than once this year. Are you really going to tell me 'things aren't that bad? Really?" His voice reaches its peak, stopping just before a breaking point. She looks hurt now. Whatever. He isn't in a particularly compassionate state of mind at the moment. She stands. He doesn't.

"I'm sorry, Jughead, I didn't mean t-"

"Are you?"

She turns and storms into her house. Her two story house where the water and electricity are never cut. Where there's always food on the table. Later tonight, Jughead will probably feel bad for his callousness in speaking to her. Not right now. Right now he's far too angry for regret. He stands, too. He kicks at the steps to the Coopers' front door. He spits. He floats off down the street and away from this place that mocks him with the comforts that will never be his.

* * *

 _"All the world that's owned by idle drones is ours, and ours alone! We have laid its wide foundations, built it skywards stone by stone! It is ours not to slave in, but to master and to own! For the Union makes us strong!"_

The song lifts into the chilly autumn air, a thousand voices strong. Jughead watches, sharing in the heady thrill of the strikers' defiance. He doesn't work for the Blossoms, though half the town does, in some capacity or another. Even Sheriff Keller is far from an impartial avatar of the law. Cliff's money makes sure of that. He's managed to get the proprietor of the new theater downtown to hire him for some simple duties around the place. The pay is a pittance, even compared to his father's meager wages, but it's better than nothing nonetheless. Though he does not work alongside them, he can't help but feel a sort of kinship with the laborers massed together on the cold pavement, standing strong in the shadow of the towering factory before them. They were poor, like him. They lived dollar to dollar, like him. They were well and truly fucked over by capital, like him. He stands a little off from the throng of defiant workers, watching intently.

Every minute they're not working is another couple dollars out of Cliff Blossom's seemingly bottomless pockets. The thought manages to bring the slightest amount of cheer to Jughead's largely ossified spirit. The factory sits on the edge of town, silent and empty. The woods surrounding Riverdale engulf it in a half-moon shape, threatening to devour this symbol of human industry. Its machinery sits idle for lack of hands to operate it. Blossom can call in scabs, but they're not in the big city. It'll take a while to bring in enough men to operate the factory and bring production levels back to normal. And all that while he'll be losing money. Keller's got a few deputies. They came by a few days ago to try and persuade the strikers to cut this nonsense short and return to work. The workers were having none of it. They arrested a few of the more prominent figures, but they could hardly arrest half of the town's population. So the strike continues.

Jughead reads the signs held aloft by the workingmen.

 _Wanted: A Fair Day's Pay._

 _Cliff Blossom Makes Money. We Make His Products._

Fair enough.

He figures he should go home and write. This is worth sticking in the 'novel' he's working on (not that he has any delusions about ever getting it published). People love heroic struggles. The underdog against authority. The slave against the master.

The Great Riverdale Strike of '35.

So far Blossom hasn't shown any sign he's willing to negotiate. That's to be expected, of course. He'd consider that a sign of weakness, no doubt. Give an inch and a mile is taken. It's a war of attrition. And his father had a point. Cliff Blossom can afford to wait. In fact, he can afford to wait forever. His wife and children's lives don't depend on his working twelve hours a day. He's got more money than he'll ever need. The workers in moth-eaten coats and shabby caps can't afford to wait. The Blossoms may lose some insignificant portion of their vast profit, but their workers have already lost out on some five days of wages. They can't afford that. They have families that need to eat. This has got to come to a conclusion. And soon.

He thinks of heading into the crowd and joining. Chanting slogans for a little while. Singing union songs. Might make him feel like he's doing something worth a shit, if only for a little while.

Maybe he should apologize to Betty. He was a little harsh. Maybe he should go talk to Archie. See how Andrews Construction is functioning in the midst of all of this chaos. Probably not well. Still better than him. Maybe he should go see his father again. No.

Jughead forgoes all of those options. He goes to Pop's, where the lights are dim and the customers are few, and thank God, he's alone with his thoughts. He sits down in a booth, slips his notebook out from his coat, and begins to write.

 _In our hands is placed a power greater than their hoarded gold, greater than the might of armies magnified a thousand-fold. We can bring to birth a new world from the ashes of the old, for the union makes us **strong!**_

* * *

Veronica Lodge tosses a quarter into a well. Who can afford to do that, these days? The raven-haired beauty sits down on the lip of the fountain. She looks into the murky water to confront the mirror image staring back at her. The girl in the water has a stony, pensive face. Hard to read. Veronica has trouble recognizing her.

Riverdale.

The name is like a foul word. From New York to this? What a cruel quirk of fate. Well, nobody's luck lasted forever, not even a Lodge. She looks back at her quarter, shimmering beneath the gently rolling waters of the fountain.

Make a wish. No? There are a lot of wishes to choose from. Yes, plenty of wishes indeed.

 _Hiram Lodge, you stand accused of conspiracy against the lawful government of the United States of America._

Really? Like something from a bad pulp. 'The Business Plot', the papers excitedly termed it. What a scandal. Germany. Italy. Now America? Would the march of dictatorship leave no land trod underfoot? The worst part was Veronica hardly had trouble believing it. A good daughter would have stood, indignant. Her face red with righteous fury, she would pronounce to all that would listen that her father was a good and honest man, and that all of this was nothing but vile rumor. But to be a good daughter Veronica would have to be a fool or a liar. She was the latter sometimes. Never the former

Business came before everything else. Success and victory were the only things worth a damn in this life. Anything that stood in your path ought to be obliterated without mercy. Rivals? Guns and money could solve that. The law? Just the same. Democracy? Maybe it was time for regime change. There was nothing wrong with helping a friendlier government to power, was there? It was just good business.

Yes, Veronica Lodge thinks. Supporting a bid to overthrow the government of the United States for the sake of profit was precisely the sort of thing Hiram Lodge would do, the old, incorrigible rascal. He'd always said people were too stupid to know what was good for them, anyway. They'd put this bungling fool Roosevelt into office already, after all. Hiram would not allow anything to cut into his bottom line. Not even the President of the USA.

Veronica makes a wish. She can't tell anyone what it is, of course. That would be breaking the rules. Then it wouldn't come true. The rules that governed fortune and fate were the kind that not even the wealth and influence of the Lodge clan could sway. Iron clad.

"Veronica?"

She turns to see her mother striding out into the Pembrooke courtyard.

"Hey, mom."

" _Mija._ " Hermione puts a hand on her daughter's shoulder. "How are you holding up?"

"Just fine, mom. Just fine. Well…" Veronica looks back at the girl in the water. She looks a little happier now. Even if it sort of an empty, cruel happiness. Close enough. "Better than the rest of the country, anyway."

That was no lie. Veronica flicks a second quarter into the fountain. Quarters and dollars. Thousands of them pile up in her mind's eye. Up, up, up, into the sky. Like a mountain that dwarfs any natural mountain. There's someone seated at the top, on an undeserved throne. Ruling without sword or rod. Those are trifling instruments in comparison with the terrible power of wealth. They are far above any other being in this wretched world. Who it is, who knows, really? Mammon? Her father? Her mother? Herself?

* * *

Jughead Jones returns home late. He still hasn't apologized to Betty, which means he won't be getting much sleep tonight. Goddamn his conscience. What a burden it was.

He steps through the front door of his house, kicking off his filthy boots. His father sits up on the couch. He looks lucid, the alcohol gone from his mind and his veins. FP Jones meets his son's gaze. Jughead, for once, sees not an empty confusion there. He sees a focus that he thought had long since gone. Even the unshaven stubble peppering his father's face suddenly seems more dignified. FP stands, and strides over to the closet, without a word to his son. Jughead follows his father's movements without speaking. He expects a disappointment of some sort. FP pulls his old leather jacket from the rack. It won't do much against the cold, but Jughead supposed that isn't really the point, anyway. FP slips on the jacket. Outside, the last rays of the sun are extinguished. A fierce wind sweeps in from the stormy sea miles away. Somewhere out there, the strike continues in defiance of powers both natural and manmade.

"Alright dad, you got me." Jughead says, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Where are you going at this hour? You know, even if you have any money left, the general store's closed. They're not gonna sell you any more beer."

FP looks back at Jughead. His eyes don't betray hurt exactly, but his son's words do strike him.

"Does it matter?"

"You've been saying that a lot lately. Getting into nihilism?"

"Don't tease me, Jug. You know your old man isn't very bright."

He starts for the door. His hand falls upon the knob. He pauses at his son's next words.

"So. Where are you going, then, Nietzsche?"

"To the strike."

Then he's gone, into the night. Jughead doesn't know if his father is telling the truth, and he finds that he really doesn't care all that much. He shakes his head. The house is still and silent and the already laughably small structure closes in on him.

Alone in the dark.

* * *

"What are you reading, Jason?"

Jason Blossom flips the next page of the hefty tome. Cheryl cocks her head in interest. Her brother looks up for a second, then returns to his book.

" _Capital_. Karl Marx."

Cheryl smiles and shakes her head.

"Don't let dad catch you, huh?"


	5. Out To Lunch

Kevin Keller turns to look at the girl striding into the lunchroom with such confidence. His eyes go wide. His mouth goes slack. Archie, Jughead and Betty watch him with interest.

"There she is."

"Veronica?" Betty asks, her voice even. "She's not so bad. I've been talking to her in A few classes."

"Yeah?" Kevin asks. "Veronica 'my father tried to replace the FDR government with a fascist autocracy' Lodge?"

"Oh God." Jughead moans. "That sounds horrible. I'm terrible at goose-stepping."

"Hey, that's not proven." Archie asserts. "Don't judge her on hearsay about her father."

"The Roman salute isn't too hard to pull off, though." Jughead continues.

Without warning, Veronica turns and begins walking towards them. She slides into the empty seat next to Betty. The dark-haired girl beams.

"Hey, Betty!"

"Hey, Ronnie."

"Hello to the rest of you." Veronica says, offering a wave cautiously returned by the rest of the table. Without waiting for a response, she says: "God, the food here is abys-"

"Stalin or Hitler?"

"What." Veronica looks back at Kevin, unblinking. The latter's eyes widen again. "Is this about my father?"

"Uhh…"

"Kevin! Seriously?" Betty hisses.

"I prefer the full mustache to the Charlie Chaplin." Jughead mumbles.

"I hear the German economy's doing well." Archie offers, weakly.

"I hear the Soviet economy's doing better."

"Bolshevik lies." Veronica says.

"Nazi lies." Jughead retorts.

"You're all communists."


End file.
